


Toska

by E_Ingram_1941



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Some Plot, Trauma, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27523183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Ingram_1941/pseuds/E_Ingram_1941
Summary: (n.) a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish
Relationships: Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: 'Hands'





	Toska

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite rusty, so I apologize if it's a bit of a mess. This is my entry for the prompt 'hands.' It was a lot of fun to write. I hope all are well and continue to be well.

_Bamshk! Bamshk! Bamshk!_

_When the war is over,_

_BAmshk BaMsHk! BamSHK!_

_I’m taking you with me._

_BAmsHK!_

_Collins?_

_BAMshK!_

As his flare gun beats against the glass, water wrapping around his neck like a noose, he prays.

They are a jumbled collection of mutters in his mind, quickly thrown together out of panic. His training had taught him different, but even then, he’d known that he would be alright. Instinct hadn’t kicked in – the world was not at war. Now he is fighting for his life.

BAmsHk!

For moments wasted.

BaMSHk!

Seconds drain on but still they run without him.

His hands toss down the useless thing as the water swallows him. His eyes open through the clear. Teeth grit and though his movements are heavy, they are sure. He shakes, screams silent in his metal cage. His limbs press against an immovable force. Death laughs, eyes crinkled in the cruel face of his lover. He does not think of his mother or the green grass of his farm. Thoughts of his drawings and his life before mean nothing in the wake of what came after, of what exists now.

Lungs burn.

Eardrums pop.

_Darling._

His eyes clench.

_Farrier,_ his mind cries. _Thomas._

_CRacKSch_

Collins opens his eyes. Above him, something smashes through the plexiglass. For a second, he thinks that Farrier has heard him, has sensed that something was wrong and come back. He shoots up through the opening, careless of the shards that might be in his way. His arms pull him up and out, setting him backwards on the nose of his plane. Gloves run over his eyes, and he thinks he will kiss Farrier senseless as soon as he gets his bearings.

“Fff-“ He cannot get Farrier’s name out, spitting up water that had tried to sink him. His eyes open, but all they see are deep red and blonde. He blinks, shakes his head. Then his gaze settles on a small schooner. Staring back at him is a young man, barely approaching his twenties, he thinks, with a disbelieving expression.

This was not his Farrier.

But he is a savior nonetheless.

“Afternoon,” Collins tries, gripping the pole offered to him. His mind slowly begins to come down from it’s high, anxiety leveling to a simmer. Clambering onto the schooner, he hears an old man call out.

“How is he Peter?”

Collins sits on his knees for a second, taking it all in. His Spit is gone, lost to the depths of the channel. He thinks he can hear the young man – Peter – call after his dad. “He’s alright!” There is a smaller, quieter conversation that happens outside of him, outside of his mind as it singles in on where he is. He looks around him, above. Something pulls his gaze to the right. It is a Spitfire.

It is Farrier.

His shoulders lax suddenly, though disappointment mingles with fear in his gut. Beginning to stand, his legs tremble. He is too anxious to sit now. But his knees buckle, collapsing beneath him.

He closes his eyes, ripping his gloves from his hands to put them in his pocket. He prays.

Or tries.

His hands clench at the deck of the schooner. There is solidity beneath him. It rocks back and forth, a lull of life as it presses on again. The thrum of the engine is a purr beneath the water, and he allows it to settle over him. Again, he tries to pray.

_Come on, Farrier._ His teeth clench at his bottom lip to make sure he won’t give them away. _Come on, love. You’ve got to come back to me. You’ve got to come back._ In his mind are visions of everything that lead up to this moment. The softest of kisses in the early hours of the morning. Lazy smiles through tense talk. Hands pressed quietly to one another as they smoked one last cigarette. Murmurs from Farrier of their life after, of everything that will make surviving worth it.

Then they’d taken to the skies, their mission clear. They’d gotten separated from the other squadrons, the sky wide open. Their talk is limited, but there are reflections in the tilt of Farrier’s voice. Everything after is a haze. Fortis leader went down. They’d gone after a bomber, a pair of fighters. One down, two to go. Two down. Him down.

_Best of luck, Collins._

Anger, rash and quick, slips through him for a second.

_Collins, do you read?_

He’s angry with himself for getting caught, for slipping up. He’s angry at Farrier for not coming back, though, he rationalizes, that would mean Farrier would have gone down too.

_Collins?_

“-sir?”

Collins looks up. Peter is staring down at him, confused. Collins blinks. “Y-yes?”

“ _Are_ you alright?” His eyes glance around, finding now the hunched over form of a man in panic, some soldier shivering against the wood of the schooner. The old man, most likely Peter’s father, looks at him as well. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Collins answers, a little more firm. “Yeah, m’alrigh.” Now he has the strength to stand, to lean onto the boat railing and keep himself upright. The sight of Farrier is gone now, little more than a memory. He sighs. Peter offers him a blanket, but he denies it. “Thank ye though.” Peter goes off, leaves him alone. The schooner gets closer. There are other, smaller ships, all pleasure vessels. There is disbelief in him as they press onward, toward Dunkirk.

_Toward Farrier._

Collins closes his eyes again, the skies open, free of enemies.

He takes a deep breath.

_Darling, what are you so tense for?_

_Collins shifts his weight in the bed. It’s too small for them, but he doesn’t mind them touching shoulders, touching everything. Hands, calloused and warm and lethal, rub circles on his back. His skin quivers with the sensation. Collins buries his blonde head in the crook of Farrier’s neck. “S’nothin.” He won’t admit to a fear of the sea, to a fear of the deep and the unknown. He doesn’t want to think of those things._

_A chuckle sounds through him, into his bones._

_He looks up, blue meeting steel gray._

_Farrier stares down at him, eyes turning a shade of love and awe that Collins had only seen a few times before._

_Shy, he pouts. “What?”_

_The man before him just hums. “How on earth are you so beautiful?”_

_“Oh sod off.” Collins shoves at him, trying to rise, but those same hands that knew how to command a plane pull him down, closer. To his credit, Farrier’s hands were hard to deny. Still, he pouts._

_“Come now, pet. Can’t I call it as I see it?”_

_A flush spreads across Collins’ face, reaching his collar bones. “No.”_

_“But you are,” he says, pressing his mouth to the shell of Collins’ ear._

_Collins shivers, swallowing down all the things he wanted to say in that moment. There is something in the air that tingles along his spine. Even in the arms of the man he loves, he is still nervous. Something isn’t quite right._

_“Jack?”_

_He looks down, finding himself. Farrier is caught between amused and concerned. “Yeah?”_

Collins opens his eyes, a sudden deep ache swelling in him. It weighs him to the bottom of the channel, though his body remains stood on deck, swaying back and forth. He hides his hands in his pockets, running his thumb along his finger. _What had Farrier meant to say?_

But he knows.

Realization rises in him, a sickness, and takes hold. The nervousness had been all keen on this, on him going down, on the torture of watching Farrier from below, unable to protect him. His jaw clenches and unclenches. His thumbs press harder. Blue gaze forward, he feels the wind, the lull, the motor in it’s struggle to push them further along towards the end goal.

A presence approaches him.

“Sir?”

Collins looks down. The young man, Peter, is looking at him, sheepish. He sighs. He thinks of the sprogs, of the new blood either down in the channel or up in air. Or safe back on land, itching to go up. He blinks. “Yeah?”

“It’s my friend. He’s…” Peter gives a side glance to the man behind them but keeps himself facing forward. “He’s taken a tumble. Could you look him over?” His voice gets a bit quieter. “He says he’s gone blind.”

A shiver runs through Collins, a tremble of pity. It doesn’t take too much to understand that there must have been a fight. He’s heard from Farrier of what happens to men when they’ve seen hell. Though he doesn’t want to leave his spot, Collins feels as though he owes this young man his life. “Sure,” he says. “Lead on, then.” He nods towards the promenade deck.

Peter gives his best smile before nodding and turning, leading him towards his friend.

Collins takes one last look to the skies, takes one last deep breath. _Come back to me, Thomas._ His mind repeats this like a mantra. _You come back to me._ Turning back, Collins glances at the father, the captain of this schooner. The two share a look of something understood, something quiet. There is a silent promise there. Collins gives him a nod before heading down. 


End file.
